


The Suitcase

by Yvearia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Molly Hooper, Angst and Feels, Break Up, Drunk Sherlock, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, It's For a Case, McVitie's, Mystery, Overwhelmed Sherlock, Past Drug Use, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Whiskey & Scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 15:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yvearia/pseuds/Yvearia
Summary: Sherlock headed straight past Molly and up the steps to unbolt the front door.“Oh,” he heard her mumble under her breath, fumbling to get the earbuds stashed in her enormous striped satchel.“Yes, hello, Molly.”  He wasted no time, heading up the stairway to the second landing and his perpetually open lounge door.“Sherlock,” she called after him, struggling to keep up with his longer stride.  He took her bag from her shoulder when she reached the doorway and hung it behind the door with a tight smile.“Sherlock, we were supposed to meet at half four. Now it’s --”“It’s six o’clock, Molly.  I’m late.  You’re not.  Excellent deduction, you’re already doing your job,” he shot back with a sneer and a roll of his eyes.  “Now.  Shall we get started?”“I haven’t got much time,” Molly stammered, shuffling from one foot to the other.“Won’t take long.  Have a boxing match to attend with Gordon later anyway, so must be quick.”  With that, Sherlock turned his back to her and retrieved the suitcase from behind John’s - from behind the armchair.  Must do something about that chair soon...***Set late in S3.  Explains Molly's breakup with Tom, among other things...





	The Suitcase

**Author's Note:**

> This "mini episode" of Sherlock is set in series three and comes between John's wedding episode (S3E2: The Sign of Three), and the Charles Augustus Magnusun episode (S3E3: His Last vow) in which Sherlock is found using heroin again "for a case". the story should dovetail nicely, following cannon and timeline to the best of my knoTledge. Hope you enjoy. This work is as of yet un-beta'd, so all spelling and gramatical errors belong to me. While I hve posted myn works in other fandoms on ffnet, this is my first attempt at Sherlock fanfic, and also my first time posting on the magnificent AO3.
> 
> (P.S. I am American, so please also forgive any butchering of the British syntax.)  
> (P.P.S. Fans of John Hamm and Elizabeth Moss, see if you can spot my inspiration for this set of circumstances that Molly and Sherlock find themselves in;))

**The Suitcase**

 

18 July

“If Sherlock should require your assistance this weekend, of course, you will be amenable, Miss Hooper. It would be to the benefit of all involved, I assure you.”

Molly rolled her eyes as she listened to the voice message.  _ Mycroft _ .  He had called at the end of her shift as she was in the locker room showers (he knew  _ exactly _ where she was, she was certain), rinsing Mr. Hagerty’s stomach contents and bile from her hair. The poor sod’s stomach was full of gaseous buildup, and therefore under extreme pressure. And Isaacs, her new intern, had been far too keen to cut to hear her warnings before wielding his scalpel.

Now clean and fresh, and ready for her lovely cat cuddles and a pair of jim-jams, she was sat on the tube,  reminding herself that just because Mycroft  _ proclaimed _ it, didn’t mean it would happen. And that  _ if  _ it happened, and she decided to acquiesce, it wouldn’t be because Mycroft Holmes had  _ proclaimed it so _ . It would be because she was a good friend.  She knew what this weekend was. Of course she did.

She finished up her evening with a warm chardonnay (she’d neglected to refrigerate it the previous evening), a cold slice of pizza, snuggles with Toby, and a promise to meet Tom for dinner the next night, after her half-day of paperwork in her broom cupboard of an office at Bart’s.

So far, no news from Sherlock.  Molly sighed as she lie down in bed. This was shaping up to be a promising weekend after all.

* * *

19 July

Sherlock slowed his pace as he approached 221 from the south end of Baker Street. Molly stood outside the door to his flat; no doubt Mrs. Hudson was still having her “mid-day soother” in the company of Mr Chatterjee at the cafe.

He needn’t look at his watch to realize that he was late. Molly was always prompt. But there was nothing for his tardiness. Needs must.

Sherlock ignored the bulge in his left trouser pocket, and watched her flex her tired shoulders as she rolled her neck and hummed along to the music being piped through her earbuds. He flashed back on her office as he had found it early this morning, computer speakers blaring mind numbingly banal contemporary hip-hop.

“Molly!” he shouted above the noise, startling a little gasp from her. She was sat on the dingy carpet tiles, amidst stacks of filing, wearing jeans and a cheery orangey-pink t shirt (whether over large by happenstance, or design, he couldn’t say), with her hair falling loosely across her shoulders.  _ Half-day. Paperwork catch-up _ .

“Sherlock. You startled m --“

“Have a case I wonder if I might get a bit of your help with, Molly.”

“Oh, I...”

“It is your half day, isn’t it?”

“Well, ye--“

“Excellent. Meet me at Baker Street. Half four? Shouldn’t take long.”  He clasped his hands tightly behind his back and cocked a brow, waiting for a response. Time was he would have dashed out of the lab and about his other business. But he was trying to be something else - better - lately.

“Not long?” Molly seemed to ask the wall clock, glancing at its stark face staring down on her. “Um, ok. Yeah. Half four.”

Now it was nearly six.

As he closed on the steps to the flat, SHerlock debated how to alert her to his arrival, wondering if he could win another startled gasp from her.  He instead settled on heading straight past her and up the steps to unbolt the front door.

“ _ Oh _ ,” he heard her mumble under her breath, fumbling to get the earbuds stashed in her enormous striped satchel.   


“Yes, hello, Molly.”  He wasted no time, heading up the stairway to the second landing and his perpetually open lounge door.

“Sherlock,” she called after him, struggling to keep up with his longer stride.  He took her bag from her shoulder when she reached the doorway and hung it behind the door with a tight smile.

“Sherlock, we were supposed to meet at half four. Now it’s --”

“It’s six o’clock, Molly.  I’m late. You’re not. Excellent deduction, you’re already doing your job,” he shot back with a sneer and a roll of his eyes.  “Now. Shall we get started?”

“I haven’t got much time,” Molly stammered, shuffling from one foot to the other.

“Won’t take long.  Have a boxing match to attend with Gordon later anyway, so must be quick.”  With that, Sherlock turned his back to her and retrieved the suitcase from behind John’s - from behind the armchair.  Must do something about that chair soon...

* * *

_ Good _ , thought Molly,  _ Mycroft’s enlisted Greg to supervise Sherlock this weekend as well _ .  She supposed with John and Mary nesting, settling into their new flat, and becoming accustomed to the idea of married life - let alone brining a tiny human into the equation - they would all be more busy taking “Sherlock duty” for a little while.

He’d pulled out a posh travel case - a leather duffle - and declared it was their mission to determine the owner’s destination, based upon contents.

“Who does it belong to?” had been her first question, as she ran her hand over the supple italian leather.

“No one important, I assure you.”

Her phone started going and she caught his eye roll as she reached into her pocket.  “Sorry,” she frowned.

“No.  Please.  Answer it.”

“I’ll just be a mo.”  Molly excused herself to the landing and pulled the door to behind her.  “Hi, you,” she answered.

“Why are you whispering?”

“I’m not,” she said more loudly, taking several steps down the stairwell.

“Well, just letting you know, I’m leaving now, but I’m running a bit late.  We may have to take a taxi from your place to make our reservations for seven.”

“ _ Oh. _ ” Molly sighed as she sank down onto one of the steps.

“Or we could try to push them to half seven.  I can call now, if you want,” Tom offered quickly at the disappointed sound in her voice.

“When you call, maybe try for eight?”

“Why?” he asked, not managing to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.   _ And rightly so _ , she thought.  It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been late on account of Sherlock.

“No.  You know what?  Push it for seven-thirty, and I’ll meet you there.  This should only take another twenty minutes - I think.  He’s got some boxing match to go to tonight anyway.”

“Right.”  She could hear the tension in his answer.

“Ok.  I’ll see you soon.  Love you.”

“Love you.” And he rang off.  This was exactly what she had been trying to avoid.

When she trudged back through the door to the lounge, Sherlock was smoking, the contents of the bag laid out before him like the pieces of an aeroplane crash ready for reconstruction.

“Shirt, tie, trousers, socks, pants.  No waistcoat or jacket. Nothing that won’t travel folded.”

“What’s unusual about that? It’s a duffle.  Overnight bag, probably?”

“Undoubtedly.  No. Nothing is unusual about that.” He blew a long stream of smoke across the fabric items, as if deliberately trying to sully them.   


Molly swept her eyes over the remaining items on display: shave cream and a safety razor, an expensive aftershave, ditto the cologne and hand lotion (in a brand she could neither pronounce, nor recognise), a similarly expensive-looking, yet different brand of tinned bar shampoo, toothpaste and small, electric toothbrush, one small, wooden handled, stiff bristle hairbrush, one bottle of motion sickness capsules, a tube of high SPF sun lotion, one sleeve of McVitie’s Ginger Nuts, one sleeve of McVitie’s Dark Chocolate Digestives, and…  Hang on.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm…” he hummed noncommittally in response.

“What are those?”

“Those, yes.  Satellite phone and backup batteries.”

Molly was suddenly more taken by the suitcase.  “Have you got a pen and pad nearby?”

“Why?” Sherlock asked as he took another lazy drag on his cigarette. 

“I’m making an inventory.”

* * *

It was getting late as he sat in his chair listening to and dismissing her theories.

_ No, it wasn’t a custody visitation.  No, it wasn’t a tropical destination. _

After a turn of biting comments, they both sat in silence, her scribbling theories on her pad, then scratching them out, he watching her out of the corner of his eye, annoyed and distracted.  He knew what distracted him, and like a magician, decided to use misdirection to his advantage.

“What is it you like about that pop singer?” he asked, hardly understanding the impetus for the words that had tumbled forth from his mouth, but then, not really caring either. 

“Who?” Molly asked, taken by surprise.

“Whoever you were listening to this morning, and again when I met you downstairs.  You were swaying your body in the same way. It must have been the same singer.” He noticed a light blush color the tops of her cheeks and the tip of her nose at his mention of her body.

“Macklemore?”    


Immediately he took out his mobile and began googling. 

“Mm, well,” she continued.  “He’s handsome. And quite talented.”

“Really?”  Sherlock sneered, viewing a picture of the young  _ rapper _ (apparently).  “I don’t think so.”

“No.  You’re not supposed to.  You’re a premier violinist.  Though you might find you have more in common with the man than you’d like to admit.” She smirked.

He was about to disabuse her of  _ that _ poorly conceived notion when his mobile started going off in his hand.

“Ugh.  _ Boring _ ,” he complained, tossing it across the lounge and onto… the armchair.  Molly was reaching for it within seconds. “No, leave it!” he moaned, sitting up straighter.

“Hello.  Oh, hello, Greg.  No, other people answer Sherlock’s phone all the time.  Yes, he’s here.” She extended her hand, phone proffered, mouthing the words,  _ for you _ .

“ _ No, really? _ ” he whispered, feigning shock.  She rolled her eyes as he took back his device.  “Lestrade.”

“You were supposed to be here nigh on two hours ago!”

“Something came up,” he replied, eyeing Molly fingering the duffle’s contents for the umpteenth time that evening.

“Sherlock!  I need you to help us catch them in the act.  We talked about this!”

“Don’t you think I’d rather be working?” He had picked up Molly’s pad where she had abandoned it, and begun crossing through each erroneous theory. He heard her groan of frustration as she stormed into the kitchen, presumably to make a cup of tea.

“I  _ do _ think you’d rather be workin’, and I think you  _ are  _ workin’.  Just on somethin’ that’s of more interest to you personally than to The Yard.”

“Video the fight, then text me the file, as well as stills of the champion and his opponent, pre and post.  I’ll get back to you.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Sherlock rang off. He glanced into the kitchen where she was pouring two cups of strong, black tea.  But before he could say anything, this time it was her mobile that started going off.

“Go ahead,” he mumbled with an air of impatience as he turned back into the lounge.  “I’ll wait.”

* * *

“ _ Molly _ . It’s nearly  _ half nine _ .”

“I’m so sorry, Tom.  I’m sure we’re nearly done.”  Molly bit her lip as she played with a peeling corner of the hallway wallpaper.  “Did you at least have nibbles?”

“Molly, just  _ hurry _ . Ok?”

This wasn’t fair.  It wasn’t fair making him wait at the restaurant, and it wasn’t fair making her choose between her fiance, and a friend who clearly shouldn’t be let alone - whether or not he’d admit it.

“Tom, why don’t you just head to my flat.  We’ll have our planning dinner next weekend,okay?  Promise.” 

“Molly, no.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” she said, trying to sound cheeky, when all she felt was drained.

“Molly… I’ve invited your cousins from Cardiff, my mates, Paul and Douglas, and your old flatmate, Liz.  And we’ve been waiting...”

“ _ Oh _ , Tom.  I-I’m coming now.”

He rang off without saying goodbye. She knocked her forehead softly against the wall several times before gathering her calm and returning to the lounge.

“I’m going to go now, if that’s alright.”  _ No, Molly.  Just grab your bag and go, for godsake. _

“I don’t know.  There’s something here,” Sherlock murmured, motioning to the neat collection of items at their feet.  “I can feel it. Maybe there was something with that tropical island nonsense.”

Molly crossed her arms and scowled at him as he sipped his tea.  The tea that she’d made him.

“Yours is getting cold, by the way.”  To that she rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

“Oh, I’m sorry.  D’you have someplace to  _ be _ ?” he suddenly bit out. “Perhaps tap your delicate little foot, so that I might  _ get the message _ .”

“I was supposed to be at dinner with my fiance two hours ago.  It’s our wedding planning party, apparently, and now I’ve ruined everything.”  She could feel the anger starting to creep up, and she promised herself she would not cry.  Crying was what Molly Hooper did when she was angry, but few people ever understood that. Surely, least of all, Sherlock Holmes.

“Why the  _ bloody hell _ didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, accusation now creeping into his voice.   


“Oh, I dunno.  Because I was assured that this ‘wouldn’t take long’.” 

“So, now I’m supposed to feel like shit? ‘I’m  _ so sick _ that I ruined her party’!”

“I honestly don’t care how you feel at the moment, Sherlock.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper in contrast to his shouting, but the anger sat plainly on her face.

“Well, enjoy your evening!  And, by the by, you are thirty… something-years old.  It’s really time to get over parties, don’t you think?”

Without another word, Molly turned, hitched her bag onto her shoulder, and stormed out of the flat.  But she stopped herself at the bottom landing. She could hear Mrs. Hudson playing her eighties rock down the hall, as Sherlock began fingering his violin strings upstairs.  She sank to the floor and just listened to the discordant noise for a few moments before making her decision.

His phone barely rang once before she heard his voice.  “The fact that you’re calling means you haven’t left yet.”

“I’m not going to make it at all tonight.  I’m sorry.” She hadn’t decided if she would go home, or to the pub, or maybe to Meena’s, but she was  _ not _ going to that dinner.

“I  _ can’t _ be hearing this properly.”

“Tom, I never asked you to do this.”  In the background noise of the restaurant, she could pick out her cousin Cecily saying -  _ always something with her -  _ and  _ \- never could commit _ .  “But I’m sorry you had to spend the evening with my  _ horrible cousins _ , and I’m sorry that I ruined this for you.”

“No.  She’s right.”

“Oh? Then why don’t you date  _ her _ ?!” Molly found herself shouting childishly. 

“How are you even mad at me?” He had the nerve to sound astonished.

“Because you used this occasion to try to get into the good graces of lots of people I can’t stand!  Don’t you get it?”

“Well, I suppose I should have invited Sherlock. You never stand  _ him  _ up.”

“You have…  _ n-no right _ …” Molly was well and truly about to start crying now.

“Actually, you know, that’s the problem. So…” Tom trailed off into silence.  And so, as it seemed, did his dinner guests from what Molly could hear of the restaurant noise.

“What?” she asked tiredly after several moments of quiet.

“You want to do this now?” he asked, somewhat softer now.  They both were. Quieter and softer.

“Just tell me.”

“It was nice to know you, Molly.  I’ll come and collect my things sometime while you’re away with Sher --”

Molly rang off before she could hear him finish.  She sat there, enveloped by the dissonant sound of violin and reverb, and allowed herself three minutes.  Three minutes to cry, and then wipe her tears, and back to something productive.

* * *

He stopped playing as soon as he heard her feet on the top step. “What’s the matter?  Couldn’t get a cab?” he asked as she swept into the flat.

“Have you got anything to drink?”  She was headed to the kitchen.

“John left a bottle of whiskey behind the tea things.  Upper --”

“I know where they’re kept, cheers.”

“What happened?” he asked as he placed his violin back inside its case.

“I think Tom and I just broke up.”

“Oh.” He was at a loss. Should he comfort her?  They had just been rowing themselves, after all.  “Really?”  _ Brilliant verbal skills, little brother _ , Mycroft taunted from the recesses of his mind.

“I think so.”  She had poured herself a neat whisky into a coffee mug and was swigging like an expert.

“So, go home.”   _ You don’t really want that. _ Mycroft again.   


“No.  I’m ready to work. I’m ready to solve this stupid puzzle.  You win. Again.” Why was she being mean? Molly wasn’t usually this mean.

“Are you insinuating that this is  _ my _ fault?”

“Well,” she half-laughed, half-sighed.  “It isn’t my fault you don’t have any family, or friends, or anyplace else to go.”

“Go! Go.  Run to him.  Like in the films.  You don’t need to be here.”  He was trying to sound accommodating, but he was suspicious it might’ve come off more as hurt.

“I  _ do  _ have to be here.  Because of some stupid rule your brother has for not leaving you to yourself on a ‘danger night’!  Honestly, Sherlock! How did you even survive without  _ minders _ and  _ hand holders _ for two years while you were away?  It’s amazing you didn’t OD then, if you can’t even be left alone for your own birthday weekend!”

How had she known…?  It didn’t matter.

“Don’t get personal just because your little  _ domestic experiment  _ failed to work out.” He thought that he had successfully deleted every needle puncture, every chopped line, every expired pharmaceutical procured on the streets during those wretched two years, but her words were like a data recovery program.  “I know it  _ kills _ you that I can resist your  _ formidable _ charms, Molly Hooper.  All the coffee, and the lipstick, and so on.  But maybe, as it turns out, I’m not the only man who can.”

“You bastard,” she said softly, staring into her coffee mug.  He could see the tears begin to roll silently down her cheeks as she brought the back of her hand up to swipe at her eyes. 

“No…  _ Molly _ .”  Sherlock watched her set her mug on the coffee table and head toward the loo. 

“I’m sorry about your boyfriend,” he called after her.   _ Not good, Sherlock. _ Ta, John.   


She knew  _ his _ birthday and yet he couldn’t remember her exact age.  He  _ knew _ it.  He swore he did.  She was like a muddled whirlpool when he tried to focus on reading her.  There was always something he forgot, or couldn’t place. Something he missed.

Just then, his text alert sounded.  Lestrade.

_ Fight’s about to start.  Here are the pre photos. _

As he scrolled through the images, Sherlock couldn’t keep a smug smile from his face.  He needn’t wait for the video, or the post-match stills. He already had Lestrade’s answer.  And then he came upon it. The highlight of his evening.

“Molly!” he practically wailed through his laughter.  “Molly, come back!”

“No, you’re an arse,” came a somewhat muffled, though much less teary reply.

“Yes, but you must see this!”  He glanced up from his mobile at the continued silence.  “C’mon!”

Slowly, she opened the door and made her hesitant return into the lounge.  “What is it, then?”

“Look at these.” Sherlock passed her his mobile and watched as she swiped through the photos.

“Oh, my…”

He began laughing in earnest at the look on her face.

“It’s not funny, Sherlock!”

“It _ is _ , though,” he chuckled, taking his phone back.

“It’s like going through someone’s knickers,” she protested.

“Apt analogy.” He grinned, firing off a text to Lestrade.

_ Arrest both challenger and champion.  Challenger left glove weighted by .14 kg.  
-SH _

“You aren’t teasing him…?”  She held an edge to her voice, still stung a bit from his earlier remarks.  He simply turned his screen to let her read his message. “Where did those come from, anyway?”  She asked, indicating the photos of the Detective Inspector.

“Himself.  Slip of the finger, I’m sure.  Though on some subconscious level… well…”  He smirked, reminding himself to delete the information from his ‘hard drive’ later.

“I should go,” Molly sighed, though she showed no signs of getting up to leave.

“No.  Stay.”  He smiled, genuinely more relaxed now than he had been since leaving Baker street on his errand earlier this afternoon.

“And do what?”

“ _ Erm _ … chat?” he tried the coloquial, but it didn’t feel right on his tongue. “Have a conversation.”

“We don’t do personal conversations, Sherlock,” Molly answered back, cocking her head to the side. “And I think you like it that way.  I know I do…”

That caused him to swallow hard as he suddenly found the carpet fascinating.  Why had he said such hurtful --

“We were supposed to be having a romantic dinner to plan our wedding, and he invites the two people from my family who get on my absolute  _ last nerve _ ?” 

“Ah.  The cousins from Cardiff.”

“He doesn’t know me at all.  And now I’m back to the beginning of the game.   _ Single again _ .”

“Well, as Hudders would say, ‘In my day, all it took was a pair of bussies and --”

“‘A good limerick’,” Molly finished for him, before snorting into her hands in embarrassment.  Sherlock couldn’t help the smile spreading his cheeks as she did so. Her laughter was honest. So few people were.

“Ahhh!” Molly screamed as she looked up from her hands, springing into a crouching position in the seat of the chair.  “Mouse!” She pointed to the space beneath the settee.

“You work in a morgue, with dead bodies.” 

“Sherlock!”

“Hand me the duffle,” he directed as he descended to the floor to try and locate the rodent. 

“What are you going to do with it?” Molly asked, shoving the bag closer with her foot.

“I’m leaving a surprise for The British Government.  He’ll find it the next time he takes his overnight bag for an out-of-town-coup.”

“I think it’s a rat,” she declared, completely uninterested in his revelation of the bags owner.

“I spent the first part of my twenties in and out of drugs dens, Molly.  It’s a  _ mouse _ .”  He heard her huff over his shoulder as he put the suitcase down.  “It’s no good. He’s escaped.”

She reached her hand down to help him up off of the floor and they both stopped short at the sound of a phone vibrating.  “It’s yours,” he said, holding up his own with his free hand.

“It’s probably Tom.  I don’t want to answer it.” She smiled down at him bitterly.

“Neither of us has eaten.  Let me buy you dinner.”

* * *

10:42 PM

She sat across from him, picking at the remains of her gobi masala, marveling as the second serving of chips the waitress had delivered to Sherlock disappeared in record time.

_ “Not the best Indian in Marylebone, but they do serve chips,” _ he’d said as they’d walked the few streets down to the restaurant.

“Why didn’t you tell me that it was your brother’s bag?”

“Bias,” he clipped out between bites.  “If you’d. Known. You’d’ve tried to. Make the evidence.” He stopped and wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, before continuing without interruption. “In this case, the contents of the bag - you would try to make the evidence fit a preconceived scenario based upon what you know about Mycroft Holmes. I, rather, let you take the evidence and let it lead you to the conclusion to which it inevitably must, without bias.”

“And what about your bias?” Molly asked, avoiding eye contact after such a bold assumption, taking a sip of her tea. 

“What  _ doesn't  _ make sense are the  _ ginger nuts _ !” he continued as if she hadn’t even spoken.  Well, nothing unusual about that.

“The clothes, one days change, nothing extraordinary. Toiletries - same. Except for the sun lotion.  But that goes along with the SAT-phone. Without those two things, the traveler could be headed anywhere.  But no. They’re headed somewhere remote and exposed. Now, Molly,” he said, waiting for her to look up at him.  When she did, he sat with his hands flat on the table to either side of his plate of chips, hint of a smile ghosting over his lips.  “Here is where  _ my _ bias can be of use.  The chocolate digestives.”

“What?”

“He is a  _ ‘stress eater’ _ .  Much preferring The Chocolate Biscuit Cake.  However, as it is unlikely to easily be at hand on occasions other than Holmes family gatherings - that is, without special provision being made - he keeps his desk well stocked with  _ McVitie’s _ .” He whispered the last bit conspiratorially with a cocked brow, and it made Molly giggle. “Therefor, wherever he is meant to be traveling with his bag, he expects to encounter a certain level of stress.”

“So, what about the ginger nuts, then?” she asked, pushing her disappointing cauliflower away and reaching for a chip off of his plate. 

“Detests them,” he answered with a sniff.  “Why would he pack  _ them _ ?” 

“But you quite like them, don’t you?” she asked, really thinking out loud more than anything else.

“Mhmm. They were my uncle’s favorite as well.”  He sat back then, got that look that Molly recognised.  The ‘tip of his brain’ look, she liked to call it.

“What?” she asked softly, almost a whisper.  Whatever he was thinking, she didn’t want to startle it away.   _ Silly thought, Molly. _

Sherlock shook his head and relaxed again, leaning forward a little.  “My Uncle Rudy always had a suitcase packed. Said, ‘A man must be ready to leave at any moment.’  Perhaps it was a metaphor.” He shook his head again, as if to clear it.

Just then, Molly caught movement out of the corner of her eye.  “Did your napkin just move on its own?”

“No.  It appears to have been aided by a large cockroach.  Let’s get the cheque and go someplace darker.”

* * *

1:22 AM

He had taken her to  _ The Courser _ .  It was a small basement pub just across the river, where he had found anonymity from time to time.  But he was usually on a case - sat alone, at a corner table sipping a lagger and sifting through his Mind Palace, until his inclination turned to wondering the streets, turning puzzles over in his head in that manner.   


Never was he stood at the bar, let alone with a petite brunette in a shirt that shone like the sun in such a subdued, subterranean atmosphere.  She had switched over from straight whisky earlier in the night, to scotch rocks. He had gone directly to  _ neat _ scotch… and he was about two ahead of her.

“I thought you didn’t drink that much?” she asked as the barman sat another down in front of him.

“Trying something new,” he mumbled, attempting not to think of the slight bulge in his left trouser pocket.

“I hate dating,” Molly sighed.  “I’m terrible at it.”

_ He should say something.  Make up for earlier.  _ “You’ll find someone.”  Chist! It sounded like it should be followed by ‘buck up, old girl!’ So he tried something different instead.  “You know you’re damned cute, Molly Hooper.” He glanced sideways at her in time to glimpse her eye roll.

“Men don’t exactly stop in the streets to stare.”

“You wouldn’t want that.”  It wasn’t a question. He knew her.  Molly was strong and independent. A feminist with her own ideas and ideals.  She was a woman worthy of respect in a relationship, and woe betide the man who thought differently.

“That’s not what you were supposed to say.”  Her response left him at a bit of a loss. 

“Why do you care what I think?”  As soon as he realized what he was asking, and of whom, it was too late.  He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers itching for a cigarette. 

“Some… people at work...  Everybody knows how I… that I… was attracted to you when you started working with The Yard.”  He listened to her painfully stumble through her explanation, his eyes still shut tightly. 

“ _ Molly _ \--”

“And they j-joke about it -  _ you and me _ \- like the possibility was so remote.” 

He took a deep breath, mentally steadying himself again.  He wanted to take a gulp of the stinging, golden liquid and let it burn the back of his throat, but feared it would telegraph the wrong sentiment.

“Molly.  It’s not because you’re unattractive.  I have to have rules. About... my work.  I have to.” He watched as she looked down into her glass, swirling the melting ice chips. “You are an attractive woman, Molly Hooper,” he added softly.

“Not as attractive as, say, another  _ woman _ you worked with once?”

“Oh, come  _ on _ ! Jim from IT?!” he couldn’t help blurting.  His filter - what little of one he usually employed - had gone to shit tonight.

“I suppose you have a point,” Molly sniffed.  “We all make mistakes. We’re all human.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly as he threw back his head and prepared to down the last of his scotch.  The motion caused him to stumble and Molly grabbed for his arm, steadying him.

“C’mon. You’re done here, Sherlock.”

He let her lead him from the bar and up the steps to the road.  They crossed Waterloo bridge in silence, arms interlinked, like a couple strolling home from ‘a night down the pub’.   


It was pleasant.  The quiet. The breeze on his face.  It settled the slight roiling in his gut that had been seething beneath the surface since he’d committed to his latest plan.  Time was the key. He’d ease into it. Take several months if he had them, less if needs must, but it could be accomplished in a matter of weeks if necessary.   


What _ was _ that incessant tugging on his arm?  _ Oh _ .

“Molly’you ok?” he asked in a jumble, words slurring inelegantly forth from his tongue.  He shook his head as if shaking cotton wool from his mouth, and tried again. “What’s the matter, Molly?”

“No, n-nothing.  It’s my foot. A blister,” she sighed, continuing on.

“It’s those bloody shoes,” he hissed, condemning the vintage, kitten heels that had clearly not been made for walking.  “We should have gotten a taxi like I said.”

“You never said,” she smiled.

“No?  Didn’t I?”

“No, you never said anything from after the pub until just now.  Besides, a cab would never take us in your state.” She shook her head, her smile growing wider.

“I have a cabbie on retainer.  For z-situashuashons such as these.”  The roiling was getting stronger now and there was a distant roar growing in his ears.  He pulled out his mobile to find the cabbie’s number.

“No use arguing, ya numpty.  You’re home,” she declared as she reached her hand into his right trouser pocket, in search of his keys.  He stiffened immediately. “I’m not taking advantage, Sherlock, I promise. Just letting us into your flat.”

“Yes,” he answered on autopilot.  His mouth was dry and his hands were shaking.  What if she had reached left? What would’ve happened…?

He suddenly found himself racing up the staircase, into his flat, and toward the loo, Molly trailing behind him.

“Sherlo--” She was interrupted by the sound of his retching - fortunately into the toilet.  He was sweating, and breathing hard, the clenching of his abdominal muscles causing a pain-spasm cycle to bloom in his body.

“I’ll go and get you some water.”  He heard her voice distantly. 

The lights were too bright reflecting off of the tiled walls.  He felt for the small stash of wares hidden in the folds of cloth against his left leg.  Now would work. Just fine. Now was as good a time as any. He could shout for her to gather her things and go.

He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out the two bags of tablets, two foil packets, and single glass vial of powder.   


He could hear her cleaning a glass in the kitchen sink.

He wanted to retch again.  He wanted to take the contents of the bags, packets and vial, and flush them down the toilet with the rest of the waste of his life. At the same time, he’d wanted to take the lot of it the moment he’d left the dealer’s that day.  Take it, make the list for his brother, and drift into oblivion. 

Instead, he reached for a loo roll, rolled his wares into a tidy bundle of paper, and stowed it inside the cardboard tube.  A crude hiding place, but it would do until Molly was gone. No use being clever if there was nobody else around to appreciate it.  And he had no intentions of getting caught. Yet.

As he walked back into the lounge, Molly offered him her promised glass of water.

“Could you pour me a drink?” he asked, ignoring her gesture as he pulled his shirttails from his trousers and collapsed gracelessly onto the settee.

“How long are you going to go on like this?” she asked, weary with concern.

“I have to do something in a few hours, and I know it’s going to be bad.”  Sherlock scrubbed his face with his hands before running them through his hair, making his curls stand askew.

“Oh.”  Molly swallowed, quiet, as if considering something for a moment.  “Do you want to be alone?”

“Would you just…” Sherlock felt his throat tighten, as if a noose were pulling closed around his neck.  “Make me a drink?”

Molly crossed the room and filled her discarded mug with three fingers of whisky before bringing it over to him on the settee.  He motioned for her to sit down, and as she did, he leaned over, laying his head in her lap. He was so worn down.

“I’m sorry if I… if I hurt you.”  It didn’t matter what he said tonight anyway.  It would all be different in the morning.

“Shh. Go to sleep,” Molly whispered as she took a sip from the mug.

As he drifted off in her arms, he had the strangest fleeting memory of the smell of ginger nuts, and the feel of pulling on curly, brown pigtails, and then… nothing at all.

* * *

When Molly awoke, Sherlock was slumped against the lounge door.  For once, it was closed to the rest of the building. He was dressed in his pyjamas, and an unlit cigarette hung loosely from his lips.  His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like hell.

“Sherlock?”  He looked up at her, dully. No other response.  “Your hand is shaking. Are you alright?” In haste, Molly slid to her knees and across the small piece of floor that separated them.

“I did what needed to be done, Molly.”  His voice was firm. “And I fear, now, that someone… has gone away.”

“What?  I don’t understand.  Who’s gone?” Molly took the cigarette from his mouth and set it on the floor next to them.  She reached forward to warm his hands in hers, but they were burning up.

“The only person who ever  _ really _ knew me.”

“Oh,  _ Sherlock _ . That isn’t true.”  It was all she had to say.  She knew he would understand her meaning.  He looked up and her, wrapped his arms ‘round her waist, and nuzzled his face into her stomach as he began to cry.

Later, after she’d tidied herself in his loo, and he’d apparently dressed and freshed up a bit in his bedroom, they shared a coffee as they discussed his cultures currently in the incubator at Bart’s.  She offered to check them in a few hours, and he nodded, before moving onto preparing another slide for his microscope. Not so much as a thank you. 

Yeah.  Everything back to normal in the world of Sherlock Holmes.   _ Maybe _ .  But Molly Hooper had no doubt, something had changed.  She could feel it. Something was coming.  _ Like an east wind _ .

-Fin

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Your thoughts and comments are both encouraged and appreciated. Thanks for reading!!  
> /hug  
> -Yve


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